


A Long Way from Etruria

by Garonne



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:39:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As they settle into the new farm, high in the cold and misty Pennines, Marcus becomes convinced Esca is hiding something from him. Contains supernatural elements, UST.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Way from Etruria

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chantefable](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Chantefable).



> Many thanks to Nightlore for beta-reading. This was written for Chantefable as part of the Eagle Exchange on livejournal. Translations at the end of the fic if necessary!

It had all started with a brown bull and a white bull, but Marcus had long since lost track of who was at war with whom, and what long-forgotten grudge or fairly mild insult had sparked each battle. Esca's long and convoluted tale was filled with heroic single combats and desperate last stands by warriors with strange, unfamiliar names.  
  
For some time now, though, Marcus had been paying more attention to the sound of Esca's voice than his words. He was enjoying having an excuse to watch Esca's face for hours on end. Esca was sitting in the shadows beyond the fire, curled up against a rock. Marcus could only see his face clearly when he leant forward to emphasise a dramatic part of the story, the firelight picking out the sharp angles of his face.  
  
" ...the Red Branch warriors were struck with a mysterious sleeping sickness, and Cúchulainn was left to face Queen Maev's armies alone, at a ford on the borders of Ulster. He slew her warriors one after another in single combat, until she came to understand that no one could defeat him save perhaps Ferdia, Cúchulainn's childhood friend."  
  
Before, in the North and in Calleva, Marcus had tried to avoid watching Esca in _that_ way, even surreptitiously. Indulgence in such a hopeless and frustrating pleasure was at odds with his soldier's impulses to discipline. Besides, he was always afraid Esca would read the desires buried in his heart. That morning, however, was the first time Marcus had seen his friend in over a month, and he felt he could allow himself a little leeway.  
  
Esca continued, "But Ferdia loved Cúchulainn too much to fight him, and he refused to leave his tent. Finally the queen began to lie to him, telling him that Cúchulainn had been mocking him, and had been saying he was too cowardly to come and fight. Goaded, Ferdia agreed to face his friend."  
  
Marcus' thoughts turned to the farm that awaited them, high in the Pennines. Sheep country, Esca had said. Horse country. No golden fields of wheat, as they could have had in Etruria, or in Hispania. It was Esca who had found the farm and negotiated the purchase, while Marcus wound up his affairs in Calleva and bid farewell to his Uncle Aquila.  
  
He had not particularly enjoyed the past month, aside from the time spent with his uncle. He had been fatigued by the constant rounds of wining and dining, being congratulated and feted by the local Roman citizens for his recapture of the Eagle. His mind was always elsewhere, with Esca in the mountains.  
  
Tomorrow they would arrive. Tomorrow they would start a new life together. He would have Esca always by his side. Frustratingly close and yet not close enough.  
  
 _It's what you wanted_ , he told himself. _Better than nothing._  
  
"Ferdia and Cúchulainn were evenly matched," Esca went on, "and the battle lasted three days. On the third day, Cúchulainn prevailed, and Ferdia died in his arms."  
  
He fell silent for the first time since he had begun.  
  
Marcus felt compelled to make a comment of some sort. "I can understand Ferdia wanting to preserve his honour, but if he believed that the other would say such things about him, they could not have been such close friends after all."  
  
"Friends do not always know each as well as they believe," Esca said in an odd voice.  
  
Marcus felt his eyes widen.  
  
Esca stood abruptly. "I had better settle the horses in for the night."  
  
He vanished out of the circle of firelight. Marcus sat there, confused. Sometimes he thought he would never understand Esca, but one thing was certain: he didn't like Esca telling him tales of close friends and brothers-in-arms who fought to the death.  
  
The next morning they arrived at the farm shortly after dawn. Around them, the summits of the craggy grey peaks were still shrouded in clouds. Esca led the way up a path almost too steep for the horses, winding along the mountainside. Finally they came in sight of a low stone house, almost indistinguishable from its outbuildings, and still surrounded by the morning mist.  
  
They dismounted, and let the horses explore their new grazing ground. Marcus started forward toward the house and almost ran into Esca, who was standing frozen to the ground, staring up the hill in front of him.  
  
"What's the matter?"  
  
Esca appeared to shake something off. "Nothing," he said, moving on.  
  
Indeed, Marcus could see nothing at all, save for some wisps of mist rolling down over the hill, and a crow perched on a twisted old tree. It cawed and flew off as they approached.  
  


.. .. ..

  
  
The farm prospered better than Marcus had expected, in that cold inhospitable place. At first he could hardly believe that Esca considered the place 'good farming land', but soon he grew to see the ground with British eyes.  
  
Sometimes Marcus stood on the threshold of the house, looking out across the valley to the stone-coloured peaks on the far side, and thought of endless blue skies and baking heat. The golden Etruscan hills seemed a lifetime away. Then Esca would appear over a roll in the ground, and Marcus' heart would warm, and he would not wish to be anywhere else in the world.  
  
Then one day he had to abandon the long trip into Isarium, the nearest town, when his horse went lame scarcely a mile from the farm. He came back, then, many hours earlier than intended, and went into the house to find salt and bran for a poultice. He carried everything he needed out to the stables.  
  
He was filling a trough with water when he heard Esca's voice, just on the other side of the stable wall. He sounded angry, and perhaps a little frightened.  
  
" _Imigh leat, agus tabhair dúinn giota beag síocháin!"_  
  
Marcus dropped the pail he held. He ran out of the stable and around the corner of the building, wishing he had his sword to hand. He stopped short. Esca was alone, sitting on a rock by the back of the house, a knife and a piece of half-whittled wood in his hand. He raised his head, and his eyes lit up when he saw Marcus.  
  
Marcus always liked the way Esca's whole face changed when he appeared, but today he had other things on his mind. Esca seemed perfectly at ease on his rock, but Marcus had the odd impression that Esca had only just sat down.  
  
"You're back very soon," said Esca. "What befell you?"  
  
Marcus stared at him, wondering whether he was going mad. "The dappled bay is lame," he said at last.  
  
Esca made a face. "Put off the journey till tomorrow, then. Come and eat with me."  
  
He got up and went into the house. Marcus walked slowly back to the stables, his mind spinning.  
  
In the days that followed, he could not shake off the feeling of being watched sometimes, especially when he was outside. Yet there was no one around but the sheep and horses, the occasional fox and the ever-present crow.  
  
Autumn came, and they harvested the vegetables they had grown alongside the house. The nights were coming earlier now; they spent long evenings curled up together in front of the fire. Marcus sometimes leant against Esca, enjoying the feel of their arms and legs pressing together. If challenged he would have claimed it was for the heat, but Esca never said anything, just went on with whatever work he had in his hands, plaiting rope or whittling.  
  
One morning, three months after their arrival, Marcus was gathering wood in the clump of trees behind the house when he heard a rustling in the leaves behind him. He turned, and instead of the bird he expected to see, he found a red-haired warrior woman, swathed in a long red cloak.  
  
She was frowning at him, her gaze sweeping him from head to toe. Her stance was not particularly threatening, and yet something about her made Marcus' hand itch for the sword wrapped up in cloths by his bed.  
  
Finally she spoke, in a thoughtful voice. _"Feicim anois, 'sé tusa an té a ghoid mo bhuachaill óg dathúil."_  
  
Marcus only understood the half of it, but it sounded like he was being accused of stealing.  
  
She stepped forward, so that they were only a foot apart, and raised a hand to his face. Marcus tensed, resisting the urge to lash out. She ran her fingers lightly along his cheek. It did not feel like a caress, but rather an examination. _"Cad a bhfeiceann sé san Rómhánach amadach seo?"_  
  
Marcus heard footsteps on the stoney path that led up from the stream. The woman turned, and suddenly in her place was a black crow with beady eyes, who cawed at him and vanished into the trees.  
  
Marcus spun around and saw Esca standing a few yards away, a pile of tack draped over his arm. His eyes were grim.  
  
"You've met her, then," he said flatly.  
  
Marcus was angry now. "What's going on, Esca?"  
  
Esca dropped the pile of leather and came to stand in front of Marcus. His eyes looked as though he were pleading with Marcus to understand.  
  
"Do you remember when once I spoke of Cúchulainn?" he began.  
  
Marcus nodded. More than once, he had been troubled by dreams of fighting Esca to death at that ford.  
  
Esca's voice took on the quality it had when he was storytelling. "Once, Cúchulainn was riding to battle when he met another chariot, and in it a beautiful red-haired woman, in a long red cloak. She called to him to stop, for she had been watching him from afar and had fallen in love with him, enchanted by tales of his great deeds.  
  
"When Cúchulainn only laughed in scorn, she grew angry and called down curses upon his head. He tried to defend himself, but all he saw before him was a crow on a dead tree. It was then that he understood he had spurned the Morrigan, the goddess of war, whose curse followed him for the rest of his life." Esca paused. "The Morrigan," he said slowly. "Bringer of life and death. I did not recognise her either, when I met her in the mountains here, on the search for a farm for us." He smiled a little. "I think if such a mighty warrior could make such a foolish mistake, then I need not be ashamed of having the same thing befall me."  
  
Marcus understood. It felt strange to have the same taste as the goddess of war.  
  
"I am sorry I tried to keep this from you, Marcus. But I did not want to explain why - " He stopped short.  
  
"Explain what? Why you spurned her?" Marcus had been wondering that himself. "She's a beautiful woman."  
  
Esca gave him an odd, challenging look. "My heart already belonged to another."  
  
Marcus felt his breath catch in his throat. Esca was still staring at him, the same strange look in his eyes. He might almost have been challenging Marcus to a fight, were it not for the tremble in his lips. Marcus knew Esca would never tremble before a fight.  
  
Marcus leant slowly forward, until he was close enough to see the flecks in Esca's eyes. Their lips brushed, and Marcus shifted his weight, deepening the contact into a proper embrace.  
  
Esca drew back almost immediately, and for a moment Marcus feared the worst. Instead Esca just said, "Wait. Not here amongst the trees," and took his hand and led him down the hill at a run, away from the trees that clustered at the back of the house, and out into the open field. They kissed on the mountainside, the endless grey sky stretching out above them. They must have been visible to every bird for miles around.  
  
After a minute of bliss Marcus opened his eyes, and saw the crow perched on a rock nearby. He nudged Esca and they both turned to look, their arms still wrapped around each other. The crow uttered a baleful cry and flew up into the sky, vanishing into the grey.  
  
"I think she has lost interest in you," he said with an unsteady grin.  
  
Esca grinned back. "That was the idea."  
  
A fine mist had come down around them, and soon they would be cold and wet, but Marcus suddenly liked this region a lot better than he did before.  
  
"Let's get indoors," said Esca with a light in his eyes.  
  
That night they lay in bed, wrapped up together in one cloak.  
  
Marcus was playing sleepily with Esca's hair. "So what happened to Cúchulainn?"  
  
"He died in battle. The Morrigan came and settled on the shoulder of his corpse in the form of a crow. Apparently."  
  
"Oh," said Marcus, unsettled.  
  
Esca smiled, and reached up the trace the line of Marcus' jaw. "Don't worry, our fighting days are behind us. The goddess of war has nothing on us."  
  


End

.. .. ..

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> For those who are interested in Esca's tale: Queen Maeve and King Ailill are indulging in a bit of pillow talk when he's unwise enough to boast about his white bull, to which she has nothing comparable. The marital dispute gets a little out of hand...
> 
> Translations in order:  
> (i) Go away and leave us in peace for a bit  
> (ii) So you're the one who stole my handsome young man?  
> (iii) What does he see in this Roman oaf?


End file.
